Aziraphale stands in his shop. On his left is a suitcase full to bursting with all his most important books. On his right the remains of a summoning circle where he just had the worst conversation with his bosses ever. He was being “fired” and being fired for an angel meant falling. The representatives from Heaven would be down at noon to do it. Aziraphale glances at the clock, 11:30.

Blast! Crowlet the old boy had better get here soon. The ingredients for the spell that would be there ticket out of here is laid neatly out on the table. Also on the table is a cup of tea. Aziraphale has been sipping it all morning to calm his nerves. The tea cup knows better than to run out or go cold in the presence of an angel. Aziraphale takes another sip and checks the clock again. 11:32. Good heavens! Crowley is being downright reckless with how late he’s being, and though Aziraphale knows that running fashionably late has been Crowley’s thing since the 1870s he still can’t help but feel a jolt of worry. He can’t imagine Crowley’s side is pleased with him either. What if they did something to him?

Aziraphale looks at the sword propped up against the table. It’s an innocent looking steel color, like most swords, but Aziraphale knows that with just a little will power it can become so much more. He hopes he won’t have to use it. The clock reads 11:35. He will give Crowley 5 more minutes than he will take the sword and go find that sneaky serpent.